


Gone

by GlassPetals



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, no happy ending, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 11:14:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16596806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlassPetals/pseuds/GlassPetals
Summary: First, it was a stumble, a simple loss of footing.Then a trip.





	Gone

First, it was a stumble, a simple loss of footing. 

Then a trip.

Eyeliner applied with shaky hand, messily tied laces, smudged lipstick, eyes flicking side to side even once in a safe place, fingers twitching as if playing a pianist’s tune in the air.

All the little things turned to bigger. 

Then it was the slip of a finger by the trigger. It was slipping out of French when angry, or tired, or irritated. It  _ was _ the anger, the exhaustion, the irritableness—all becoming much more often. It was flinching as if hit when someone so much as raised their voice slightly.

Never did they think it would come to this. The  _ crash _ of a fall none of them heard until too late. 

Gone. Gone, gone, gone, gone,  _ gone _ . The word was a never-ending mantra in his head. He knew some had it worse. He knew Patron-Minette did. Jehan, even. 

Yet still, the dried flowers from his notebook blazed. Crinkling and catching on matches. Red and violet and white erupting in a burst of light before crumbling in black. 

And still, the bottles drained faster than before. His hands trembled, paint blooming and cutting over them when they fumbled for a cigarette. 

Blank eyes and blank faces. It was all he could see in the mirror, all he could  _ create _ in his art. He saw the looks of pity, the looks of concern. But they were directed at Jehan, never him,  _ never him _ . 

The name was like a brand to hear, so he never said it, not even in his thoughts. The hurt was still there though, the hurt and the worry. 

When Montparnasse left, it was a whisper, leaving behind the hurt, and the worry, and the ghost of someone once everywhere and now nowhere. Montparnasse was a star—a star that burned too hot and too fast. A star that fell, searing skin. 

He spent more time at the gym, hitting and hitting and  _ hitting _ .

Teeth gleaming behind a grimace, tears threatening to fall at any moment.

He didn’t know when Montparnasse would be back. He didn’t know if he  _ would _ be back. 

All he knew was that he was  _ gone _ . Gone, gone, gone, gone,  _ gone _ .

But there was hope. A faint glimmer, but it was there. There wasn’t certainty, there was never certainty, but there was hope. 

And hope  _ kills _ .

It can give, sure. But not always. Sometimes it takes—it takes and takes, and the hope is cruel and  _ relentless _ .

And so bottles get drained, canvases get filled, and dried flowers  _ burn _ . 

**Author's Note:**

> I got yelled at a LOT for this. My friends were Not Pleased. Now you can yell at me as well on my [tumblr!](https://aceof-hearts.tumblr.com/)


End file.
